Hystérie
by SweetPseudonym
Summary: WIP/Working title. M/M. PWP unless you consider human experience a plot. Follows canon till the end of Winter Soldier-then deviates. Steve/Bucky. The soldier struggles with PTSD while attempting to uncover his past -evading Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D., and Steve. Buckycentric but eventual Stucky feels. May end up with a higher rating. May be slow to update. Not beta read. Thanks!


Notes: Hey guys. Here's the first installment of my story-I hope you enjoy it! I'm struggling a little with the formatting on here so I apologize in advance if it's a little chunky looking. Thanks!

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Hystérie

The air was cool against dampened skin as the ghost trudged through a wooded area around the Potomac, having just hauled 240 lbs of super soldier from its depths. His memories snapped at him like strained rubber bands and each intrusion was an electrical current nipping at the frayed edges of his mind. Collapsing to the ground, his knees sinking slightly into the moist soil, the winter soldier thrashed against the pain, throwing his metal arm outward to take his frustration out on a nearby tree, causing it to crack and splinter the bark into a cloud of particles. Leaves pillowed around him from the force of his impact. He had left the man in the muddied shore of the lake, beaten and bruised and barely breathing. That face, even unconscious and bloodied, was achingly familiar but struggling to recall the past always resulted in searing hot lashes at his brain. The soldier clung to his stomach in an effort to settle the tumultuousness swirling inside his gut. Those blue, blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, burned into his mind even now as the final words echoed in his ears. _"'Till the end of the line."_

Bucky doubled over and retched onto the ground beside him. What little his stomach had contained became fertilizer for whatever flora grew near the lakeside. The wind whipped his hair against his face, some sticking to his sweat slicked forehead, as hot tears etched pained lines down his cheeks. An involuntary noise like an injured animal escaped his cracked lips as he lay prone in the dirt, his body shivering from both the onslaught of cold wind and mental desolation. Who was he? Who was his mission? He knew him, he knew him. He had said so before before…something happened. The pumping muscle in his chest felt dead and cold, a weighty thing that seemed drawn to the center of the earth, pulling him down down down into the ground. But then rage took hold, directed at himself for being so weak as to succumb to such frivolous emotions and also at the men who did this to him, took his thoughts from him. He could remember that much at least, being wiped clean like a dirty plate, always ready for Hydra to cook up another repast for him to devour. Just remembering that small detail seared his mind and caused him to dry heave into the air, but he pulled himself up from the dirt, leveraging his weight against the tree he had abused.

Hydra was gone or at least he was free of their control. No handlers were here to drag him back to the bunker to fry his brain into submission. The soldier's metal armed creaked from the damage it had sustained in battle with the not-quite-stranger. He rotated his soldier and flexed his cold fingers, water gushed from between metal plates and he shook it off. A single, determining thought encompassed his mind and moved him into action. Find out who he was.

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Steve violently coughed and water erupted from his throat, spilling out over his chin. His body was half sunk into the mud when Natasha found him, reminding her of a similar time when he was found unconscious, half enclosed in the ground (or ice as it were). The mud had all dried up around his super soldier heated body, leaving long cracks webbing out from his torso. "Oh Cap, what are we gonna do with you?" muttered Widow as she radioed in that she had found Steve among the hellicarrier debris. She neglected to mention the pair of boot tracks that were slowly being eroded by the lapping of waves against the shoreline. Even in his comatose state, Steve let a whispered name catch on the breeze coming off the lake and it struck at Natasha' heart strings. "We'll find him, Steve, don't you worry."

* * *

The world had changed a lot since the last time the ghost could remember, although he had bits and pieces of things evolving over time but it was like a dream, not really happening to him. He knew what color television looked like, he knew what cell phones were and the internet but it was all cloudy and like a concept that had never really been actualized. He could use technology like he grew up with it his entire life but he didn't know _how_ he knew. More than anything, it frustrated him to know that Hydra had taken so much from him. He suffered from frequent, often times debilitating, migraines because of their handiwork.

Immediately after escaping the lake where he had left…that man…he quickly realized that he had to make a change to his very conspicuous appearance, lest Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D capture him during his new mission. He snagged some sweat pants and a jacket from a clothes line and a baseball cap from a street vendor, now blending fluidly into a crowd. He made his way to the only thing he could recall with any semblance of clarity, the 40's. However, not possessing a time machine, he proceeded to the next best thing, the Smithsonian. He easily maneuvered past the security entrance and any prying eyes, which he was certain were now on the lookout for him. A large display titled "The Roaring Twenties" pointed him in the right direction of American history. As he weaved in and out of touring crowds of people, he finally approached the correct decade and right in the middle of the hall entrance was a 15 foot high poster of the soldier's mission, the man's eyes gazing off into a future without Nazi's and Hydra. The Howling Commandos bordered the man with equally hopefully looks of victory on their faces. Immediately to the right of Captain America, as the title proudly pronounced under his picture, was the ghost of a man that the solider used to be.

"James Buchanan Barnes," whispered the soldier.

A sudden white-hot shock erupted between his eyes, immediately causing him to momentarily lose balance and stumble. He collided with the hall entrance wall, one arm grasping desperately to his gut as a wave of nausea hit him, his gloved metal fingers pressed forcefully between his brows, his shoulder hunched over instinctually. Attempting to regain equilibrium, he took a few calming breathes and eased the grip around his middle. A sweeping hopelessness pooled around him as small flashes of a time forgotten returned. He remember Captain-no, Steve's face but it belonged to a much smaller frame. They were standing in front of a rundown building, talking about something sad. Steve looked downtrodden; his shoulders slumped but his face resolute. Accompanying the memory was an overall emotion of sympathy and warmth, yearning to protect. In a split second, the memory vanished but in its wake was an overwhelming sense of purpose. _Protect_. Who was James to Steve and who was Steve to James? Deeply kept remembrances itched at the corners of the ghost's mind, only further cementing his desire to unbury his history. He remained against the cool marble wall of the museum for support until he regained all his bearings, determined to solve the mystery of his past.

A gentle hand appeared on his shoulder, snapping him to attention. He fought every instinct of twisting the attached arm out of socket and sweeping the legs out from under whoever had advanced on him unknowingly.

"You ok, buddy?" inquired an older gentleman clothed in the uniform of a curator, the badge on his maroon vest glared brightly in the soldier's eyes. Bucky turned slowly, slumping his shoulder as he did so in order to separate himself from the intruder, the hand falling away.

"I'm fine, just taking a break," he heard his voice utter, unused and scratchy sounding to his own ears, but reassuring.

"Alright," replied the curator cautiously, noticing the predatory glint in the soldier's eyes, "there's a bench over there if you need to sit." He gestured to the middle of the exhibit hall, smiled and receded back in the large crowd of people to assist someone else.

Bucky followed the direction of the man and walked toward the marble bench, conveniently located right in front of a display about the Howling Commandos. As his stomach settled, Bucky stared unblinking at the words that would unveil his memory.

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TBC...


End file.
